


In The Houses Of Healing

by Grundy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Houses of Healing, TRSB18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 22:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15738570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: A modern take on Faramir and Eowyn in the Houses of Healing, featuring Mad Libs and other ways for frustrated hospital patients to pass the time.This story was written for the TRSB'18, foressenceofarda/funkytoes'samazing art of Faramir and Eowyn in a modern Houses of Healing.





	In The Houses Of Healing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [funkytoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/funkytoes/gifts).



Beep…

Beep…

Beep…

Eowyn recognized the sounds.

Hospital.

She’d been in them often enough to know – though usually visiting other people. She’d been healthy throughout her childhood, and despite the usual mishaps of youth, had managed to avoid any broken bones.

Until now, of course.

She supposed she should be happy. The last she could remember, she hadn’t been too optimistic about the chances of opening her eyes again. Waking up in a hospital was definitely better than the alternative.

Though on further reflection, she decided ‘awake’ might be overstating the case. After a bit of effort, she managed to convince her eyelids to open, and her eyes to focus, but anything more was going to take a while.

They must have given her some good painkillers. She wondered if it was for her arm, which felt surprisingly heavy, or for something else. If she’d been able to sit up, she would have taken an inventory of her limbs to make sure they were all still there.

Just because she’d managed to down and kill a Nazgul didn’t rule out orcs or other nasties doing damage after she lost consciousness…

“She’s coming round,” an unfamiliar voice announced in Westron.

Wonderful.

Not only did she have to deal with being in a hospital, she had to deal with it in a language not her own.

She knew the tongue of Gondor, of course. Her grandmother had been from Belfalas, and had insisted that her children and her grandchildren would master the tongue of the Westmen to the point of being indistinguishable from those who learned it as their first language.

Eowyn had come in for her share of grandmaternal tutoring, but it had been cut short by Morwen’s death ten years ago. She’s fairly sure the Gondorians will judge her to have a strange accent, and she _knew_ her vocabulary was narrower than it should be.

A nurse floated into view.

“Good morning, lovey,” she chirped. “It’s just gone mid-morning, if you were wondering.”

“Ioreth, for the love of the Tree, you can’t call the Princess of Rohan ‘lovey’!” someone else hissed from beyond Eowyn’s currently rather limited sight.

She had a neck brace on, she realized when she tried to turn her head.

“’S okay,” she managed to croak despite her body’s continued lack of cooperation.

At the rate she was going, she might manage to successfully sit up by the end of the week.

“There, the princess herself doesn’t object, so you just get on about your duties, young Aldeth,” the nurse sniffed.

Ioreth was a kindly looking woman who was somewhere in the transition from ‘motherly’ to ‘grandmotherly’.

“You’ll have heard I’m Ioreth, lovey, and I’ll be your nurse whilst you’re in the Houses of Healing,” the nurse continued. “I know waking up properly from sweetsleep can feel like it takes an age, but you woke before, after the king had gone, and seemed to be in pain…”

Ioreth was bustling about, raising the bed slightly so that Eowyn had a bit more of a view, and removing the neck brace.

“You’ll not be needing that anymore, we really should have had it off sooner, but the doctors were inclined to be cautious what with you being your brother’s heir. Can’t have anything going wrong while we have responsibility for you. Now, was there anything you need before I continue on my rounds?”

There was one thing she very much needed, and it was going to require assistance…

“Bafroom,” she convinced her uncooperative tongue and jaw to mumble.

“Oh, dear me, of course. You must be near to bursting,” Ioreth exclaimed.

With the nurse’s stolid assistance, Eowyn managed to make her way ever so slowly to the toilet (she was thankful to note it was a private one) to relieve her bladder.

By the time Ioreth deposited her back onto her bed, fluffed her pillows, and arranged the blankets ‘to keep you properly warm, lovey, those gowns are frightfully thin and they keep it on the cool side in here’, Eowyn was debating whether or not a nap might not be in order.

But it seemed a shame to go back to sleep when she’d just woken up, so she did her best to stay awake, and maybe even to wake up properly, after Ioreth bustled off.

She hadn’t reckoned with the sheer tedium of being left to her own devices. The few coherent thoughts she could muster weren’t terribly pleasant, centering as they did around her uncle and her brother. She knew the one dead; the other was quite likely off fighting some new battle, given his failure to appear in her room after allowing a reasonable span of time for a runner to reach him with the news that she was awake.

She ended up falling asleep, and woke to discover that it was now evening. Someone had thoughtfully left her dinner covered on a tray within easy reach.

Better yet, her body was no longer sluggish – she seemed to be properly awake this time. She also felt thirsty, which seemed like a good sign.

Her arm turned out to be heavy because it had been put in a cast. She wasn’t sure how long it would have to stay on, but she did appreciate the color scheme of it – alternating stripes of the green of the royal house of Rohan and the darker green of the army uniform of Rohan.

She found a pitcher of water had been left on her bedside table, and a tumbler to go with it. She poured herself some water and drank greedily, thankful there was no one around to observe her lack of manners.

She uncovered the tray to find bland, easily digested food. There was a small dish of mashed potato, a few carrots cooked soft, and a cup of egg drop soup, with a tiny banana pudding to serve as dessert.

Despite her initial annoyance at the small portions, she found she was barely able to finish the whole tray – whoever had made it up had a good idea of how much a stomach just awake would want.

The nurse who came in to tidy the tray away was not Ioreth.

“Sorry, your highness, but she’s done for the night – you VIP patients have quite worn her out. I’ll let her know you looked for her, she’ll be pleased to hear you’re recovering nicely.”

Eowyn wondered who else was a ‘VIP patient’, but didn’t ask. She doubted she’d get an answer today.

“I’m sure it’s the last thing you want to hear, but you should get some more rest,” the nurse continued. “You were touch and go for a bit there, and I think we’d all rather not explain to your brother the King why you’re not fully recovered when he returns.”

There was a certain tightness to her expression and an almost indetectable hesitation before the ‘when’ that suggested to Eowyn’s realistic ears that it was not _when_ but _if_ Eomer returned _._

She didn’t argue, however. She’d seen enough of battle to know the importance of choosing her ground.

\---

Faramir was heartily bored. The healers were adamant that he was not going anywhere outside of his sickroom for the next sevenday at the least. They seemed to feel that quite aside from the injuries he’d taken in Osgiliath, he’d pushed himself to the point of collapse.

That hadn’t prevented him finding out about his father’s death.

It had been kind of Mithrandir and Aragorn to attempt to spare him the details, but by the third day of staring at the same four white walls with nothing to relieve the tedium, he had badgered an orderly into telling him the news of the City – _all_ the news. In full.

The Warden of the House had been furious, but Faramir stoutly insisted that he had ordered the boy to tell him all, and the lad hadn’t been in a position to defy the Steward.

He _was_ Steward now, even if he wasn’t being permitted to do much besides wait for the war to be decided elsewhere. The healers were intercepting anything more serious than damage reports. They’ve managed to keep him almost completely in the dark about the current position of the war, though they had grudgingly allowed him to hear the bare facts of the defense of Minas Tirith.

It was distressing to think that Theoden King had paid with his life for honoring the old alliance, and to read the list of Minas Tirith’s own fallen.Then again, it was also distressing to think his father would have burned him alive but for the halfling Peregrin Took.

He had far too much time to think about such things, since he was being limited to no more than two hours of ‘work’ a day, and no reading beyond that, not to mention chivvied frequently about the need to rest.

He was starting to contemplate whether the House of Mardil could stand the shame of a Steward who abandoned his duty to run away to the war on top of the shame of one who deserted his post in the midst of utter madness. He’s never been morbid or a glory-hunter, but dying in battle was starting to sound good compared to dying of boredom.

\---

Morning brought with it the realization that her room had a window (though it faced west, not east, giving her a view of little more than the face of Mindolluin) and a breakfast tray that smelled far more delicious than she’d expected.

Having gotten through the night with no digestive complaints, she was evidently allowed more exciting food now, for her eggs and buttery toast were accompanied by a thick slice of something fried that smelled meaty, but turned out to be unexpectedly soft inside its golden brown crust. She hadn’t had whatever it was before, but she liked it well enough that she resolved to ask a nurse later what it was called.

But she did not intend to spend all day contemplating the innocuous blankness of the walls. She’d never been one to sit around doing nothing, and this didn’t seem the time to start. There was the matter of her uncle, for a start.

She was pleased to find it was Ioreth who arrived when she’d finished eating.

“You look much improved this morning, lovey, if you don’t mind me saying,” Ioreth greeted her cheerfully. “And you’ve an appetite again, which is a good sign. A few more days of rest and there’ll be naught but that cast to show you were ever under the weather.”

Eowyn glanced at her bare arm and wrinkled her nose. That was a bit of an exaggeration – the lines might be pink now rather than the angry red she was sure they’d been just after, but she was certain they would scar.

“No need to fuss over _that_ ,” Ioreth said sharply. “It’s not every girl who can say she’s slain the Witch King of Angmar, and any man who says a word about the marks you took in the doing isn’t worthy of the sight of them.”

“I may not be worthy then,” Eowyn sighed, “for I can’t say I much like them myself.”

“Ah, so you do speak,” Ioreth beamed. “Don’t fret, they won’t always be this vivid, dear, they’ve faded a fair bit in just a sevenday. Give it another month or two, and most won’t even notice them.”

“Mmm,” Eowyn murmured noncommittally.

“Now then, lovey, you’ve eaten, was there anything you needed?”

“I wish to see my uncle,” Eowyn replied immediately, having waited for such an opening.

Ioreth’s face fell.

“Oh, lovey, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but-”

“I know he’s dead, I was with him when he died,” Eowyn said brusquely. “I wish to see him now.”

She paused, then added what she was sure would be the clincher.

“It is not our way to leave our dead unattended.”

“He’s been tended, lovey, never you worry yourself on that score. He’s been treated with every honor.”

“I should still prefer to see for myself,” Eowyn pressed. “I will go in a wheeled chair if I must, but I _will_ see him.”

She did her best to imitate her grandmother’s manner, the one which had always gotten results with no further argument, and she might have gotten it right, because Ioreth looked a bit fretful herself.

“I’ll speak to the healers,” she said worriedly, “but I can make no promises. It’s not my decision, you understand.”

“Of course. But please assure whoever does make the decisions here that I will not be put off for long.”

Ioreth sighed, but nodded.

“ _Try_ to rest, lovey.”

Eowyn thought the nurse muttered something about young people with more nerve than sense as she left the room, but she might have misunderstood.

She was left to her own devices for long enough to wonder how much time had passed, for what she could see of the sky outside was gloomy enough that she couldn’t tell.

Then the Warden of the Houses of Healing himself arrived, with several other healers and Ioreth trailing after him. He looked rather pinched, though whether it was because of her kicking up a fuss or something more than that, Eowyn wasn’t sure.

“I am told you wish to see your uncle,” the Warden said.

“You have been told correctly,” Eowyn replied. “And after that, I would find some useful occupation. I cannot lie here abed for days on end.”

The Warden frowned.

“You are not yet healed,” he said severely, “and even had I not been told that you should not be up and about for several days yet, I would still have counselled against this course.”

“You have been told?” Eowyn asked. “Are you not the foremost healer of the city, into whose charge I have been entrusted?”

“I am, Princess,” he replied. “For the moment, at least. But I was bidden by the lords of this city and of Dol Amroth, not to mention by your brother the king to see that you were tended with the greatest care.”

“I will be uneasy until I have seen Theoden King for myself,” Eowyn pointed out.

“Then it will be done,” the Warden nodded. “But after that, I beg you will return to your bed, and there should be no more talk of _useful occupation_ for the time being. Your task is to rest and heal; nothing more.”

Eowyn frowned, but decided that having carried the most important point, further debate could wait.

“I cannot see my uncle like _this_ ,” she pointed out, gesturing at the flimsy hospital gown. “It is decent only so long as I move carefully and remember to hold the back closed.”

“I will have clothing brought for the princess,” Ioreth assured the Warden, who gave her a skeptical look but chose not to argue the point.

“I will have transportation ready in an hour,” he told them. “I trust her clothes can be ready by then as well.”

Ioreth nodded, and both bustled off.

Eowyn didn’t have to wait long before Ioreth returned, carrying a long garment bag. She unzipped it to reveal an impressive dress. The long skirt was dark blue velvet, while the fitted bodice was a lighter shade of blue with silver accents. She could see it being worn for trooping of the color or a military review.

“It’s not your proper colors, I know,” Ioreth assured her, “but I don’t know where I’d find something in green and gold, and from what I can see, you and Princess Lothiriel are as near to the same size as makes no nevermind.”

Holding the dress up against herself, Eowyn nodded. It was certainly close enough that she could wear it.

“I may need some help dressing,” she said, holding up her cast apologetically.

“It would be more surprising if you didn’t, lovey,” Ioreth replied. “Not to worry, we’ll get you sorted.”

With Ioreth’s help, Eowyn managed to wiggle into the dress, though to her distress, Ioreth had to take a scalpel to the sleeve, opening the seam to the elbow to allow her to get her cast through.

“But-”

“Don’t fret yourself,” Ioreth said briskly. “Princess Lothiriel shan’t be needing this dress anytime soon, and I cut the stitches neatly enough that it will be no great matter for her tailor to put it back together. It’s more important that you look presentable in public, dressed appropriately for a princess.”

Eowyn would have been perfectly satisfied with serviceable, every day clothes, but she supposed since she’d had to make a fuss to get to see her uncle at all, she would have to go along with this wrinkle gracefully.

Ioreth did her hair in something rather more elaborate than Eowyn would have attempted, even with both arms working, and clipped several ornaments into it, grumbling to herself about the lack of a proper coronet.

When Ioreth had finished, she walked Eowyn to the mirror in the bathroom.

“There, now, what do you say to that?” she demanded in satisfaction.

Eowyn looked herself up and down. She had to admit it looked rather good – the long sleeves and high collar meant the marks on her arms and chest weren’t visible, and if the cast spoiled the crisp lines of the dress a bit, the silver ornaments pinned in a neat circle around her head to mimic a more conventional marker of royalty drew the eye away from that minor detail.

She smiled.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Ioreth,” she told the nurse.

“Now, before we set out, you’ll have a good chunk of time if you want it, but if you look like you’re too tired, I’m to bring you straight back, understood?”

The nurse gave her a steely look that wouldn’t have been out of place in a marshal of the Riddermark.

“Of course,” Eoywn agreed, for it was clear that was the only acceptable answer.

They did insist she sit in a wheeled chair to be taken to the entrance, and to the waiting car.

“Normally we’d walk from here,” Ioreth said as she helped Eowyn settle into the back seat. “But you’re still supposed to be resting, so we’ll ride instead. It won’t take long.”

She was quite correct – as the Houses of Healing were in one of the highest sections of the city, it was only a few minutes to the Citadel by car.

At the gates, the driver had a word with the guards, who seemed shocked to discover that he was bringing the Princess of Rohan. After a pair of startled faces, one of them clearly a junior officer, peeked into the passenger compartment, the gates were abruptly flung open with a salute. The car progressed no faster than a slow walk – accompanied by a hastily assembled honor guard.

When the car finally halted at the steps to the Tower of Ecthelion, the door was opened for her, and one of the officers politely helped her out of the car.

“Thank you…” Eowyn paused.

“Beregond, son of Baranor, Princess,” the man supplied. “It would be my honor to walk you in, if you would permit.”

At a sharp look from Ioreth, Eowyn knew the answer had to be ‘yes’ unless she wanted the wheeled chair again. (She couldn’t imagine what the benefit was to not using her legs. She was happy to still have them, and didn’t want them to wither from lack of use.)

“Thank you, Beregond,” she replied, and took the arm he offered.

She was relieved to find there were only the half dozen steps, for this was the most walking she’d done since the battle.

Beregond knew the way, and led her into what could only be the throne room.

The hall was decked in black, less for the color of the banner of Gondor’s king than because the city was in mourning.

There were biers to the right and left of the throne. Her uncle lay to the right. He had been washed and dressed in finery that if not precisely Rohirric, looked more like a man of Rohan than one of Gondor. His hair had been brushed out, and he was surrounded by brocade and wreaths in the colors of Rohan. Flags flew behind the bier, and four men she recognized from her brother’s eored stood guard.

They snapped to attention at the sight of her, or as near to as they could manage – she was sure they were only available for this duty because they had been deemed too injured to ride with the host.

“My lady,” they murmured.

She greeted the only one she knew by name.

“Fastred,” she nodded. “How are you?”

“Better than I was, my lady,” he answered stoutly. “I lost my shield hand, but that still makes me luckier than my namesake.”

Eowyn glanced to his left arm, and found that it ended in a pinned sleeve. It was upsetting, but he was right – he had lived, as her mother’s granduncle had not when _he_ rode to the aid of Gondor.

“I can defend Theoden King yet for all that,” Fastred added.

“I do not doubt it,” Eowyn said reassuringly. “How long have you been standing guard?”

“I came on duty after the morning meal, my lady,” Fastred replied. “Though if you meant how long has it been Rohirrim guarding our king, almost from the first. Before the army moved out, men who were still fighting fit stood – your brother took the first vigil, once it was certain you would live. Since they departed, it’s been men like us, who were a bit too banged up to be allowed to march.”

“Has it been very quiet?” she asked.

“No, my lady,” the man opposite Fastred replied.

“I do not believe we have met before,” Eowyn said apologetically.

“Déor, my lady. I rode in Elfhelm’s eored.”

“As did I,” Eowyn replied with a smile. “But you say it has not been quiet here?”

“No, lady – I believe they have shut the hall that you might have privacy for your visit, but there have been a fair number of Westmen coming to pay their respects all the time I’ve been here. Other watches have said the same.”

“There is a book,” Fastred added. “They can write in it as they come through. Some came to see the Lord Denethor – well, what’s left of him, anyway – but more write in the King’s book than the dead Steward’s.”

The slight blush made Eowyn suspect that he could not read the Westmen’s letters. Many Rohirrim never learned Westron, let alone the script it was written in. But she could. She was curious to see what the Gondorrim had written.

She stepped over to the book, and read, first silently to herself, and then out loud, so her countrymen would understand what the Westmen had probably not spoken to them.

_The people of Gondor and the House of Ciril honor Theoden King and extend their sympathies to the people of Rohan and the House of Eorl._

_Hallacar son of Heruman is deeply grateful for the sacrifices of Rohan and Rohan’s King, whose charge saved his son’s life._

_The ladies of the House of the Ship salute Theoden King and offer their condolences to his heir Eomer King and his niece Eowyn Princess._

She turned page after page and found it was the same – condolences, sympathy, and thanks.

Embarrassingly, she found that her own actions featured in a few of them.

_Ciryandil the harbor master says the names of Theoden King who broke the enemy’s ranks and his niece the princess Eowyn who slew the Witch-King of Angmar shall be sung through all the Ages as heroes of Rohan and Gondor._

She felt her face turning crimson at the idea that she should be sung of as a hero.

To her surprise, when the honor guard, somewhat worried, asked what had distressed her, and she read it out, they nodded in approval.

“I am afraid, Princess, that you will find your story has gone through the city faster than dragonfire,” Beregond told her. “Had they not closed the Citadel for you, you’d probably find yourself mobbed with admirers and well-wishers.”

Eowyn blinked, unsure what to say to that.

Ioreth tutted.

“You haven’t a lick of sense, son of Baranor,” she chided. “The poor girl did not need to be told that.”

Beregond didn’t look very sorry.

“Better to know than to be surprised,” he replied. “Ambushes are rarely pleasant.”

Ioreth frowned, but held her tongue.

“Is it proper for me to sign the book for Denethor?” Eowyn asked. “On behalf of Rohan?”

She wasn’t clear on how the Steward had met his end, but with so many Gondorians signing the book for her uncle, she didn’t want them to think the Rohirrim indifferent to their own loss – and she knew that few of her people would be able to write in Westron.

Beregond and Ioreth exchanged a look Eowyn couldn’t interpret, but Ioreth nodded.

“Yes, I suppose that would be only right and proper. I don’t think his book had been set up before Eomer King rode out.”

Eowyn stepped over to the other bier – this one bearing a closed casket covered in the banner of Gondor, which implied the dead Steward’s fatal injuries must have been severe indeed.

After a moment’s thought on what she had seen in the book for her uncle, she wrote: _Eowyn Eoumund’s daughter, princess of Rohan, offers the condolences of the Rohirrim to the people of Gondor on the death of their Steward._

It sounded terribly stiff, but the Rohirrim weren’t normally given to such formal writing. They generally offered their sympathies verbally, and followed that up with food and drink.

She was just about to ask Ioreth if perhaps they should head back – despite her wish to avoid the wheeled chair, her legs were beginning to tire, with the only place to sit down here either the Steward’s chair or the throne itself, and neither seemed advisable – when a nervous junior officer entered.

“Sir,” he said, with a salute to Beregond, “will the princess be staying much longer? Only the crowd waiting at the Citadel gate was already fairly large _before_ a rumor went round that Eowyn the Witch Slayer was within…”

Beregond blanched.

“How bad is it, Lieutenant?” he demanded.

“I don’t think the car can get through safely, sir,” the lieutenant replied. “The crowd may lose its head entirely if they catch a glimpse of her.”

Beregond glanced from her and Ioreth to the few Rohirrim and swore quietly.

“Right, here’s what we do,” he said. “Ioreth, you’re not going to like it.”

“Obviously,” the nurse said drily.

“There’s a private gate to the sixth level, usually reserved for the use of the Stewards and the Kings. But it’s not meant for cars.”

“Is it close? I don’t think I can walk very far,” Eowyn admitted nervously, trying to hide her mortification.

“I’ll carry you if need be,” Beregond replied. “The gate will let us out quite close to the Houses of Healing. With a bit of luck, we can slip into the gardens without being noticed by anyone but the guards, and get you safely back to your room.”

He turned back to the junior officer.

“Give us ten minutes, then you may re-open the hall to the public,” he instructed. “Make sure the crowd is well-controlled, and see that they maintain a queue as before. Tell the driver the car should wait in the Court with its windows down, so people will see that it is empty, and drive back once the crowd has dispersed sufficiently.”

Then he looked to the Rohirrim.

“We’ll not be speaking to anyone,” Fastred said drily. “We’ve been keeping silent when others are present.”

“Excellent,” Beregond nodded. “In that case, we’ll be going this way, ladies. Princess, will your skirt let you ride piggyback?”

“Piggy back?” she asked blankly. “You let pigs in here?”

“On _my_ back, lady,” Beregond clarified. “I’m sure you’ve done it as a child, perhaps you know a different word for it.”

“Pickaback?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, I think that’s an older way of putting it,” he agreed. “My gran used to call it that. Can you manage?”

She glanced at the skirt, and took a few long strides to test it. No, it wouldn’t work with the skirt at its full length. But if she hiked it above her knees…

“Yes, I can make it work,” she decided. “Provided you’re not easily scandalized.”

“Not anymore,” Beregond said dismissively.

Ioreth helped her tuck the skirt up and clamber into place on Beregond’s back.

“Right, here we go,” he said.

\---

Faramir sighed and wandered out onto the balcony of his room, which opened directly onto the gardens of the House. He was out of things to occupy his time again. He’d already had his time doing paperwork, and the healers had arrived and whisked all papers and books away. He wondered idly what they’d say if he demanded to take up flower arranging, since they seemed determined to deny him anything more constructive.

He debated picking his way down the steps into the garden proper, but decided that would be a bridge too far just yet. Too much exertion – and too much risk he’d do something strenuous like talk to other patients. The balcony was private, with only his room and the next room (no longer Boromir’s room, he reminded himself) opening out onto it, but the garden was not. He understood this section was being reserved for the Rohirrim, and he’d occasionally seen a few of them walking about.

Their allies were largely taking the exuberance of the Gondorians at their unexpected presence in their stride, but they needed somewhere to retreat to when they wanted to be among their own, and this particular garden had quite a few plants imported from the plains of Rohan. The healers who looked to minds rather than bodies had decided that meant it was best suited for them.

He'll talk to them at some point. He should – he was the Steward, it falls to him to make sure the men of Rohan knew that it wasn’t just their Gondorian brothers in arms who appreciated them honoring the old alliance, that official Gondor honored them as well.

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by a rather extraordinary sight.

His staff officer Beregond staggered in through the gate, carrying a woman on his back, with Ioreth fussing at the pair of them.

“To the stairs!” she instructed sternly, pointing at the steps to his balcony.

“But-” was as far as Beregond got.

“I’d do as the lady says, Beregond,” Faramir called, stifling an urge to laugh. “That tongue of hers can get rather sharp.”

Besides which, he was curious to meet the lady in what looked suspiciously like his cousin Lothiriel’s state dinner dress.

“I think I can manage the stairs on my own,” the woman said firmly. “Beregond has done wonderfully to get me this far.”

Beregond looked grateful to be able to set her on her feet, though he took care to make sure she was steady before he let go. He bowed to the lady and gave Faramir a slight nod before escaping through the same gate he’d entered though. Faramir made a mental note to send for him later – he wanted to hear the full story behind this.

Ioreth’s cautious manner as the two women made their way up the steps suggested she was worried the well-dressed lady would topple over at any moment, so Faramir made sure to have one of the loungers on the balcony at the ready.

He supposed it was a bit late to worry about being underdressed – his unexpected ‘guest’ might be dressed to the nines, but he was clad only in one of the dratted hospital gowns. He frowned and double checked that it was firmly tied at the back. The last thing he needed was to cause an incident by accidentally exposing his bare behind.

Particularly since he’d just realized who it was invading his balcony. Between the dress, the hair – definitely Rohirric, not Gondorian – and the cast, he suspected he was about to meet the city’s newest hero and current darling, Princess Eowyn of Rohan.

He heard the door to his room open, and the Warden came out onto the balcony, practically radiating agitation.

“Oh, thank the Valar,” the Warden muttered. “Ioreth, I was at my wits’ end – the car came back empty!”

“A crowd had gathered, and Major Beregond feared trying to bring the princess back through it in the car would end badly,” Ioreth replied dismissively. “We’re safely here for all that, though. As you can see!”

She steered Eowyn straight to the nearest lounger and the lady seemed happy enough to sit.

“Well,” the Warden said in relief. “I’m glad that’s turned out well. And I suppose as long as we’re here, I can have it out with the both of you over this repeated nonsense of wanting to get to work!”

Faramir raised an eyebrow.

“This is Faramir, the Steward, lovey,” Ioreth clarified for Eowyn’s benefit. Turning to Faramir, she added, “This is Eowyn of Rohan, and mind you don’t give her any bad ideas, young troublemaker!”

Eowyn’s lips quirked as though she might laugh at Ioreth’s idea of proper introductions.

“The pair of you are as bad as the other,” the Warden said. “Neither of you is fit to be up and about yet, and I can only repeat that you both need to rest as much as possible if you expect to make a full recovery, let alone a swift one.”

“I am quite well, Master Warden,” Eowyn replied tartly, “except for my arm, and that is comfortable enough. But I’m liable to fall ill from sheer boredom cooped up in that room.”

Ioreth snorted at the lady’s claim to be well, and Faramir had to suppress a smile, for he could see as easily as the healers could that she was exaggerating.

“You are free to take your complaint to the Steward of the City,” the Warden replied. “But there will be no more outings until I am satisfied that your assessment of your own health is fact instead of wishful thinking.”

Faramir shot the man a look, but with a bow, the Warden departed, and Ioreth followed.

“You may indeed make your complaint, my lady,” Faramir said, “but as you can see, I am also a prisoner of the Healers.”

Eowyn snorted, and he smiled. It was hard to believe a lady so lovely had ridden to war among the men, much less that no man had noticed.

“However, if there is something you wish that lies within my power, tell me and I will see it done.”

“Can you not command the Warden?” she asked. “Bid him to let me go.”

“I could try,” Faramir laughed, “but as you have heard, I am myself in the Warden’s keeping. And while he may call me Steward, I have not yet formally taken up authority – in fact, the healers seem determined to keep me as bored and frustrated as you are. But even were that not the case, I imagine I would still listen to the Warden in matters of his craft.”

“I do not desire further healing,” Eowyn said irritably. “I am well enough to ride to war like my brother.”

“You might die in battle,” Farmir pointed out. “They ride to the gates of Mordor itself to challenge our Enemy.”

Eowyn shrugged.

“My uncle Theoden died in battle, and has both honor and peace,” she said. “There are worse fates.”

“No doubt,” Faramir replied, suppressing a shudder as her words made him think of his father. “But it is too late to follow the army now, even were you strong enough to do more than take the stairs from the garden to the balcony.”

She flushed, for that shot had struck true.

“Be of good cheer, Lady Eowyn,” he added. “Death in battle may yet come to us. Though you may be better prepared for it if you do as the Warden asks.”

“If I am to follow the Warden’s commands, you shall have to, too,” she muttered.

“Indeed,” Faramir sighed. “You and I must endure the waiting, with what patience we can muster.”

She sank back against the chair.

“The healers would have me rest in bed several days yet,” she sighed. “And my window does not look east.”

Faramir smiled.

“That at least I can remedy,” he told her. “These rooms are reserved for the rulers of Gondor. As we have had no King for many years, they have primarily been used by the Stewards. But I am the last of my line, so the other room that opens onto this balcony is vacant. I shall tell the Warden you are to take that room.”

That drew a small smile from her.

“I suppose you will want something in return this arrangement,” she said.

“Indeed. As you have heard, I am also ordered to rest, and the most I may do is sit on the balcony and contemplate whether a sortie to the garden below will result in being carried back to my bed. I would appreciate your company.”

“I may not be a very cheerful companion, my lord,” she said, a touch grimly.

“And yet,” Faramir said gently, “if we have only a few days left to us in the world, I would rather spend them in your company than alone.”

She looked rather startled at that, and rose.

“I thank you for your kindness,” she said, somewhat stiffly. “I think I should rest now. You said it was this door, did you not?”

At Faramir’s nod, she vanished inside.

Faramir sat on the balcony for another half hour, doing his best not to look to the other door too often.

\---

Eowyn sat on the bed in her new room. The windows faced east, and she could walk out on the balcony whenever she wished.

She wasn’t quite sure what to make of Faramir. His eyes had been rather intense.

She was relieved when Ioreth bustled in carrying what few things she had from her old room. To her surprise, Ioreth was directing several orderlies, who were carting in flowers, small boxes, and baskets.

“Tokens from your well-wishers, lovey. We’ve managed to keep them out of the building, but we can’t very well tell all the florists and merchants they can’t deliver. And when you’re ready to be up and about, I daresay you’ll find it easy enough to find new clothes – I have letters from three department stores, two clothiers, five tailors, and as many designers all imploring to be the ones granted the privilege of dressing you.”

The orderlies set up the flowers in a surprisingly tasteful arrangement, stacked the packages and baskets as best they could, and disappeared again with smiles.

“Now, let’s get you back out of that dress,” Ioreth suggested. “You may not like it, but you can’t deny you’ll be more comfortable in one of these.”

She held up a standard hospital gown.

Eowyn sighed, but she couldn’t very well live in someone else’s dress. Getting out of it was at least quicker than getting into it had been.

But, she reflected as she crept into bed, she was going to have to be very careful if she had to continue wearing these to not give Lord Faramir an eyeful.

\---

Faramir waited until dinner time to summon the Warden.

“What can you tell me of the princess Eowyn?” he asked. “Truth, I mean, not gossip or rumors.”

The Warden told him in brief the facts as he had heard them – of her riding among the rest of the army of Rohan, of her bringing down the Witch-King’s flying beast and killing Angmar besides, of her being carried in nearly dead afterward, and being healed by the Ranger of the North the people were whispering was the Heir of Elendil.

“You would do better to ask the Halfling that rode with the Rohirrim and is also here in the Houses,” the Warden concluded. “I am told he was with her when she faced Angmar. He surely knows the truth of the matter better than I do.”

Faramir frowned.

“Send him to me, if he is well and will come,” he said.

Meriadoc – “call me Merry, everyone does” – was rather more detailed in his account, and Faramir thought he began to understand the princess of Rohan better through her loyal companion than he would have from the Warden alone.

He was thinking on all Merry had said when there was a knock on the door.

He was surprised and rather pleased to see it was Eowyn herself who stood somewhat uncertainly in the door, one hand holding the hospital gown firmly closed behind her – which he understood perfectly, and almost unconsciously checked that his own was secure – while balancing several packages on the cast on her other arm.

She looked just as beautiful in a hospital gown as she had in his cousin’s dress, but a good deal more approachable. He reminded himself that it might be foolish to hope.

“You complained of boredom, my lord,” she said. “As I seem to have a sudden embarrassment of riches, I thought it only right to share.”

Faramir grinned and wave an arm to indicate she should make herself comfortable.

She chose to sit on the bed rather than any of the chairs, and spread the packages out on his bedside table.

“The people of Minas Tirith have been sending me gifts,” she said, sounding rather mystified by the idea, “and I _think_ these are games, although they are not ones I recognize.”

Faramir opened the nearest one. It was stamped with the logo of one of the premier toy shops in the city.

Inside, he found a Jenga set – a favorite of his, though possibly not a fair game to play with someone who had one arm in a cast – a marble maze, star jumpers, and several activity books, generally used by younger children but that would probably alleviate the boredom of people their own age stuck on bed rest.

“They are games,” he said with a smile. “I know all of them, and can explain the rules of play if you wish to try any of them.”

Her eyes lingered longest on the star jumpers set – which was really quite magnificent, with a board carved from wood that must have been imported from Harad, and playing pieces made of artisan glass and semi-precious stones rather than the usual mass-produced marbles or wooden pegs. Looking closer, he noticed the pieces had also been embellished. The greens had a Rohirric horse, the blues swans of Dol Amroth, the blacks the tree and stars of Gondor, the “white” were actually clear with tiny flowers of Ithilien, the “yellow” appeared to be made of lion’s eye stones from Erebor, and the sixth color (usually red or purple) had been substituted by grey gems with tiny white ships carved on them. It was a gift worthy of a princess, and he made a note to speak to the toymaker.

“I was wondering if you might explain these,” she said, and handed him one of the activity books.

To his delight, he realized it was a Mad Libs.

“I haven’t seen one of these in years,” he grinned. “My brother and I used to do them as children.”

She cocked her head to one side.

“Is it a game or something to read?” she asked in puzzlement. “It looks like a book but it came with the games.”

He suppressed a laugh.

“It’s both,” he explained. “Each page is a short funny story, but it doesn’t have all the words – you ask the person you play with to fill them in.”

She still looked puzzled.

“Here, let’s try one. Is there a pen or pencil in there somewhere?”

Eowyn sifted through the box and came out with a pencil that had a stylized horse head carved on one end.

“Ok, would you like to write or answer first?” he asked.

“Answer?” she replied uncertainly.

He would have begun, had Ioreth not barged in.

“Here – my _goodness_ , Faramir, what ever were you thinking?” she demanded, switching thoughts in mid-sentence.

“For once, Ioreth, I’m at a loss,” he replied patiently. “What was I thinking about what?”

“You can’t have Princess Eowyn in here with the door closed,” she exclaimed, sounding scandalized.

“I think we’ll manage,” Eowyn said drily.

Ioreth’s eyebrows rose toward her hairline.

“Unless you intend to be the talk of the town in a less heroic way than you currently are, that door had best stay open,” she said firmly.

Turning her glare on Faramir, she added, “that is, unless _you_ , Lord Steward, intend to speak to her brother on his return!”

Eowyn looked so baffled as the nurse marched out pointedly leaving the door open that Faramir couldn’t help but laugh. Apparently the Rohirrim practiced slightly different etiquette than Minas Tirith!

“She can’t honestly think we’d be having sex in here,” Eowyn announced, her expression still one of amazement.

“Apparently she can,” Faramir said, giving in to the laughter.

“With my arm in a cast and an IV line in yours?” Eowyn said skeptically.

He was rather heartened that she’d noticed he was back on the IV. But it was _not_ helping his state of mind for her to casually throw out the idea of the two of them…

“I can be rather creative, I’ll have you know,” he told her.

“If Ioreth continues with that attitude, I may take you up on that just to see her reaction,” Eowyn murmured. “Anyway, before we were scolded like children, you were going to show me how these _Mad Libz_ worked.”

“Mad Lib _s_ ,” he said, stressing the pronunciation slightly, but keeping his tone neutral. He’d learned some basic Rohirric, and it had been maddening trying to get some of the sounds correct.

She waited expectantly.

“The story has lines with space for you to fill in missing words. One person asks for words by saying what kind of word they should be,” he told her. “The other person doesn’t know what is being filled in until the person asking and writing in the answers read the whole story out. Got it?”

“I think so,” she replied, though her face said otherwise.

“How about you ask me first – you’ll see how it works when you’re filling in the story.”

“Ok,” she said. “Do we have to go in order, or do I just pick a page?”

“You can go in any order. Usually the books have a theme, like _Summer Fun_ or _Elvish Tales_ , but each page is its own little story. You can start at the back if you like.”

She nodded, and flipped to a page at random.

“Adjective,” she announced.

“Freeing.”

“Noun.”

“Garden.”

“Plural noun – what is _plural_?”

“It means more than one. Healers.”

“Person in Room – Female. That’s silly, I’m the only person in the room. I say it should be person in the building – female. That at least gives you more than one choice!”

He snickered. For her to object to it being herself, he suspected it was something less than flattering.

“Ioreth!”

“Adjective.”

“Chatty.”

“Article of clothing.”

“Sock.”

“Why ‘sock’?”

“I dislike the funny socks they give us to keep from slipping on the floor. They fall off too easily and they’re lousy at keeping my feet warm, which is the whole point of socks.”

Eowyn’s lips quirked, but she continued.

“Noun.”

“White Tree.”

“You can say more than one word?”

“It asked for a noun. ‘White Tree’ is a proper noun.”

“You Gondorians are odd, to invent games that make you think about grammar.”

“No odder than you Rohirrim, who apparently think nothing of having sex just so someone else can walk in and be shocked.”

“Fair,” she replied. “A city.”

Faramir was thrown for a moment before he realized she’d returned to the Mad Libs.

“Pelargir.”

“Plural noun.”

“Birds.”

“Adjective.”

“Cheerful.”

“Part of the body.”

“Butt.”

She gave him a look.

“Tell me you haven’t been worried you’ll accidentally show the whole world yours wandering around in these flimsy gowns,” he dared her.

“Letter of the alphabet.”

“E.”

“Celebrity. I think the name should probably start with the letter.”

“I think you’re not supposed to give me hints, but Eärendil.”

“Plural noun.”

“Orcs.”

“How do you go from Eärendil to orcs?” she demanded. “Your mind is very strange.”

“Just you wait until it’s your turn!” he laughed.

“Adjective.”

“New.”

“A place.”

“Court of the Fountain.”

“Another body part. And knowing how your mind works, you should probably go for one that doesn’t have to be covered for propriety.”

“Darn, there goes my witty choice of _balls,_ ” he said, although honestly he wouldn’t have said it lest he give her the idea he had a one-track mind. “Arm.”

“It is all filled in. Now I read it back to you?”

He nodded.

“Yes, I’m eager to hear what I’ve wrought.”

“There are many _freeing_ ways to choose a _garden_ to read. First, you could ask for recommendations from your friends and _healers_. Just don’t ask Aunt _Ioreth_ – she only reads _chatty_ books with _sock_ -ripping goddesses on the cover. If your friends and family are no help, try checking out the _White Tree_ Review in “The _Pelargir_ Times”. If the _birds_ featured there are too _cheerful_ for your taste, try something a little more low- _butt_ , like “ _E:_ The _Eärendil_ Magazine, or “ _Orcs_ Magazine _”._ You could also choose a book the _new_ -fashioned way. Head to your local library or _the Court of the Fountain_ and browse the shelves until something catches your _arm_.”

Faramir started giggling at “Aunt Ioreth” and her sock-ripping goddesses, and escalated to full-blown laughter at ‘low-butt’.

“You have to admit,” he said, “that my original choice would have been funnier than _arm_.”

“Yes, yes,” Eowyn snorted. “You, Lord Steward, are terribly immature. Gondor is in for quite the shock when you formally take up your office.”

“Oh? It’s your turn to supply the words, Princess of Rohan, let’s see how you fare.”

“Fine, but you may not search through until you find stories that demand body parts,” Eowyn said firmly.

“If you insist,” Faramir said with a put-upon sigh. “I picked at random, just so you know. Adjective.”

“Boring.”

“Adjective.”

“I just gave you one!” she protested.

“Yes, the next word is also an adjective,” he said with a smile.

“Stuffy.”

“I hope you’re not thinking of _me_ when you pick these,” he grumbled.

“How could I not? Nothing is more boring or stuffy than talking about butts and balls,” Eowyn snickered.

“Plural noun.”

“That’s more than one, right? Gaolers.”

“Ah-ha, _now_ I know who you’re thinking of! Plural noun again.”

“Horses.”

“Very Rohirric of you. Adjective.”

“Green.”

“I don’t think _green_ is an adjective. It sounds rather nounish.”

“It describes something, does it not? Therefore it is an adjective. And nounish isn’t even a word!”

“Here I thought you weren’t going to debate about grammar,” Faramir laughed.

She glared at him.

“Noun.”

“Horse.”

“Eowyn, you can’t use _horse_ for every noun!”

“Why not?”

“It won’t make sense!”

“I though not making sense was the whole point of these!”

“It… But… Just don’t keep using _horse_ every time, ok? Switch it up a little.”

“If you insist. What’s next?”

“Another noun. Which has to _not_ be _horse_.”

“Fine. _Stable_.”

Faramir snickered.

“Next is a plural noun.”

“So I shouldn’t say _horses?”_

Faramir _thought_ she was just taking the piss, but he couldn’t be sure.

“You can if you really want to, but it would be better not to. And I’m really not supposed to give you this many hints!”

“That wasn’t a hint, you just keep telling me not to say _horse_ or _horses. Sheep_.”

Faramir frowned.

“Is that a translation of a Rohirric curse?” he asked cautiously.

“No, that was my plural noun,” Eowyn replied with a frown.

“Right. I was just thrown by the tone you said it in… Adjective.”

“Annoying!”

“Person in room, male – I think we can expand this to the building like we did before.”

“That’s quite all right. Faramir.”

“Yes?”

“That was me answering,” Eowyn said, rolling her eyes. “Faramir is a person in the building, male.”

“You’re mean, you know that?”

“You knew that when you met me. Nice girls don’t sneak off to battle and kill unnatural flying beasts and undead witches.”

“You make a good point. Adjective.”

“Brave.”

“You may be redeeming yourself slightly. Noun.”

“Rider.”

“Adjective.”

“Tricky.”

“Then again, maybe not. Noun.”

“Saddle.”

“Plural noun.”

“Gondorians.”

“Congratulations, this one is _far_ more ridiculous than mine. Plural noun.”

“Children.”

“Now you’re just being random.”

“Again, isn’t that how this works?”

“Adjective.”

“Noble.”

“Thinking of me again, I can tell.”

Eowyn threw a stray pillow at him, though she took care to aim at the side away from the IV.

“Another adjective.”

“Fair.”

Faramir bit his tongue on saying ‘thinking of you this time?’

“One more adjective and we’re done.”

“Flowering.”

“I did not expect that one,” he said with a smile. “Right, here is what you’ve produced: Ladies and gentlemen, on this _boring_ occasion it is a privilege to address such a _stuffy_ looking group of _gaolers_. I can tell from your smiling _horses_ that you will support my _green_ program in the coming election. I promise that, if elected, there will be a _horse_ in every _stable_ and two _sheep_ in every garage. I want to warn you against my _annoying_ opponent, Mr. _Faramir_. The man is nothing but a _brave Rider_. He has a _tricky_ character and is working _saddle_ in glove with the criminal element. If elected, I promise to eliminate vice. I will keep the _Gondorians_ off the city’s streets. I will keep crooks from dipping their _children_ in the public till. I promise you _noble_ government, _fair_ taxes, and _flowering_ schools.”

“It’s rather indecent of the crooks to dip their children in the public till,” Eowyn said evenly – and with a remarkably straight face.

Faramir looked at her for a split second before he caught the twinkle in her eye and absolutely howled with laughter.

Neither of them were particularly surprised that Ioreth marched back in.

Eowyn pasted a surprisingly convincing look of innocence on her face.

“You are supposed to be _resting_ ,” Ioreth reminded them.

“In Rohan it is said that laughter is the best medicine,” Eowyn remarked blandly. “Do the Gondorians think differently?”

Ioreth regarded her for a long minute.

“Just you mind you behave yourselves,” she said at last, before leaving the room – and this time, closing the door.

“I’m not sure if that means we’ve behaved so well that we can be trusted, or if we’re so bad we need to be kept out of sight,” Faramir snickered.

“Perhaps she couldn’t decide either,” Eowyn suggested. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t bait her so. I may need her help to get dressed again.”

“You had help dressing?” Faramir asked. He’d heard that some noble ladies had servants dress them, but Eowyn hadn’t seemed the type.

“I could hardly get myself into that blue dress with this stupid thing,” Eowyn shrugged, brandishing her broken arm.

“Oh, right, I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Though I may be able to put on one or two of the things in my room now.”

“Oh?”

“The games weren’t the only things I’ve been sent. There’s dresses as well. The more thoughtful ones have wide sleeves.”

“You don’t sound entirely pleased,” Faramir said.

“They’re all _white_. It’s not a very practical color. And I don’t understand why everyone’s taking such an interest.”

“You’re a hero of Gondor, Eowyn. The whole city’s heard about you defeating the Witch King. Some of them are grateful, others are trying to get your attention hoping to benefit.”

“Ah,” she said, sounding as if something finally made sense to her. “But how do I know which is which?”

“If they’ve splashed a big logo over what they’ve sent, they’re trying to benefit,” Faramir said. “These, on the other hand…”

He pointed at the star jumpers set.

“The toymaker may hope you’ll show or mention his fine work to others, but I think he mainly was hoping you’d like it and be amused while you’re known to still be in the Houses of Healing. He included a card in the box, but his mark isn’t even visible on the games he made. The books are for sale at many bookshops and toy shops, not just his.”

Eowyn nodded.

“I must thank the toymaker when I see him. This was a well thought gift.”

She paused.

“I think I will wear the dresses for now, and worry about what the senders meant by them later. Anything is better than _this_.”

Faramir laughed, though he privately agreed. Once he was off the IV, he planned to send for his own clothes. A set of pyjamas at least, if the healers were going to insist it not be regular clothing.

“The word games were fun, but maybe something less…suspicious?” Eowyn suggested. “If we don’t make a good show of resting nicely, we will be stuck here even longer.”

“Have you played star jumpers before?”

\---

Eowyn was surprised how quickly the afternoon passed now that she had something to do. Faramir was good company, and they tried most of the games in the package, including the one Faramir thought she would be at a disadvantage at because of her cast.

“That’s my shield arm, not my sword arm,” she sniffed. “I’m willing to try this _Jenga_. Or are you afraid you’ll be beaten by a gimpy-armed shieldmaiden?”

She won. Three times in a row. Faramir was agitating for best of seven when Ioreth appeared to chivvy her back to her own room to eat dinner.

She didn’t see why they couldn’t have taken dinner together. It wouldn’t have been much trouble to wheel the little table that fit over the bed from her room into his.

“Right, lovey, you’re to stay in bed after dinner. You don’t realize how easily you tire just now, and you’ve been up all afternoon.”

“Sitting,” Eowyn protested. “Not walking or even standing!”

“There’s plenty of time tomorrow,” was Ioreth’s merciless stance on the matter.

Eowyn pushed her food about on her plate resentfully. It was all well and good to say ‘plenty of time’, but how true was it? For all they knew, the Army of the West had been defeated and Mordor could swoop down to destroy them at any moment.

Even what she would have on any other evening called a scrumptious shepherd’s pie and the lemon honey brandy ice cream with chunks of apricot failed to lighten her mood.

When she woke in what she assumed was the morning, it was dark enough that she double checked the clock twice, unable to believe it.

She frowned, and wondered if Faramir would be awake yet. Ioreth or no Ioreth, she meant to walk in the garden today.

She rose and grabbed the first of the wide-sleeved dresses she’d been sent, despite its impractical color. Then she gritted her teeth and braided her hair, a more time consuming process with one arm in a cast than she’d expected.

When she’d finished, she decided that while she didn’t look quite as impressive as she had in the blue dress the other day, she still looked acceptable.

She slipped into Faramir’s room to find a pair of wheeled chairs waiting, and Faramir himself also dressed in regular clothes rather than hospital robes.

She raised a questioning eyebrow.

He sighed.

“I mentioned wanting to walk in the gardens, and Ioreth helpfully brought these,” he told her with a groan. “Which as you’ve been walking back and forth between your room and mine, and I’ve been getting out onto the balcony rather nicely, seems rather like overkill.”

“I am not going anywhere in a wheeled chair,” Eowyn assured him. “And I do not see where you need one either.”

“Oh, I don’t _need_ one,” Faramir replied, a dangerous twinkle in his eye. “But I can see how we might make use of them…”

She waited patiently.

“Have you ever had a wheelchair race?”

\---

“Setting an absolutely _dreadful_ example for everyone else in the Houses, Gondorians and Rohirrim alike!” Ioreth excoriated them.

“What do you think your brother the King would say if he knew what was going on here?” she added, turning sternly to Eowyn.

“He’d ask if I won,” she replied serenely, well aware of the fact that they’d attracted an audience. Not all of the Riders watching could understand Westron, but she felt sure that those who could were translating for the rest. “Which, of course, I did.”

She heard a round of snorts and suppressed laughs among the Rohirrim.

“Because you _cheated_ ,” Faramir pointed out in an undertone.

“If you failed to explain the rules of wheeled chair racing adequately, that is your own fault, Lord Steward,” she replied airily. “Your slur on my honor is why I challenged you to a joust in the first place.”

This time the laughter seemed to come more from the Gondorians – the Rohirrim did not laugh until they saw their allies found it humorous.

“I did not know I was dealing with such a fierce competitor!” Faramir retorted.

“We grow up racing, albeit on horses and in cars rather than wheeled chairs. Did you really suppose you would have an easy cruise to victory?”

That had nearly all the audience in stitches.

“Enough, all of you!” Ioreth snapped.

“You two-” she pointed sternly at Eowyn and Faramir, “will kindly return to your rooms and there will be no more wheelchair races in the corridors, much less wheelchair jousting in the lounge!”

There was a not entirely suppressed chorus of disappointed ‘aw’s from the rest of the room that showed that they had certainly given their fellow patients ideas.

“The rest of you,” Ioreth continued, once again channeling her Marshal of the Riddermark persona, “have places to be other than gawking at a pair of supposed adults behaving like naughty children.”

Under her glare, the crowd dispersed, though it didn’t seem anyone’s spirits were the least bit dampened by Ioreth.

Faramir caught her eye and the two of them wheeled themselves meekly back to his room at a far more sedate pace than they’d used going in the opposite direction.

“I think that may put an end to the wheelchairs,” Faramir said with quiet satisfaction as they reached the relative privacy of his room.

“Good,” Eowyn exclaimed. “We are not so fragile.”

“No,” Faramir replied with a smile, “we are not. And as we are not, I thought perhaps we might dare the garden after lunch.”

Eowyn couldn’t help but smile herself.

“I suspect after that performance, we will find there are more than enough Riders to run interference for us with Ioreth and the Warden,” she said. “We might even manage to have a quiet afternoon undisturbed.”

To her surprise, that was exactly what happened.

They spread a blanket out beneath one of the trees to sit on when they tired of walking, and any time a healer or Ioreth appeared, one or another of the Rohirrim suddenly needed assistance returning to his room, or retrieving a dropped crutch, or fetching an urgently required glass of water.

Faramir was surprisingly easy to talk to, even when they weren’t speaking of silly games or wheelchair races. He listened when she talked about the last few years, with Grima Wormtongue lurking around every corner and not even feeling safe in her own room at night, and resolving that she would never feel that helpless again.

Aragorn, she knew, hadn’t understood her at all when she’d said she was tired of skulking around and wished to march to battle. Faramir, being stuck in the same position with her now, had a better idea what she’d meant. She felt that even now, if they were able to slip away, he would join her in a ride to battle. It would be far better than waiting here on the edge of a knife, not knowing if the people dearest to them lived or died while they sat in relative safety and total ignorance of their fate.

But she didn’t do all the talking. Faramir told her a bit about his own life in Minas Tirith before the War, about the mother he had only a few treasured memories of, and the brother who had died trying to return to the city from faraway Imladris. His father he barely mentioned, and in his silence and few words on the subject, Eowyn found enough to wish she’d been less generous in her sentiments about the dead Steward, even if had been the proper thing to do to write in his book.

The wind blew from the east most of the afternoon, as it had been the past few days, but it turned cold as the afternoon wore on, nearly icy by the time they were called in for dinner.

“I don’t know if I will be able to go out tomorrow if it stays so cold,” Eowyn said sadly. “These dresses are made for summer, or autumn at best. They are not meant for chill winds.”

“Wait and see what tomorrow brings,” was Faramir’s suggestion.

Eowyn reflected as she went to bed that she’d miss the quiet sanctuary of the garden if the weather kept her inside. Faramir would no doubt keep her company, but it would not be the same directly under Ioreth’s eye as it had been that afternoon.

\---

Faramir felt absurdly cheerful the next morning when he awoke, though the day was as dark as ever, and opening the door to the balcony for just a few seconds told him there was a fierce north wind blowing.

He sent a note to the Citadel to have warm clothes brought for Eowyn. She’d sounded so disappointed at the prospect of being cooped up inside again after an afternoon of relative freedom that he had decided she’d damn well sit outside if that was what she wanted to do. He ordered a messenger to bring a cloak of his mother’s, definitely because it was the only woman’s cloak that came to mind and not because Eowyn had looked so lovely in blue and silver.

“Wait and see what the morning brings indeed,” was Eowyn’s comment, but it sounded more fond than annoyed as he wrapped the cloak around her and offered her his arm to descend into the garden.

“I didn’t promise not to take a hand in what it brought,” Faramir told her, rather pleased with himself.

She was warm enough, and he thought the starry cloak made her look like one of Varda’s handmaidens inexplicably alighted in Minas Tirith.

“Look, it is clear to the north,” Eowyn said in surprise. “I can see light there.”

“What is it you look for in the north?” Faramir asked, hoping he had not misinterpreted, though he did not see how he could have.

All that she had spoken of yesterday had been of herself and her brother in Rohan, and their uncle and the cousin who had been killed in a battle in their own country, mentioning almost nothing of the Ranger said to be Elendil’s Heir. There was a marked difference between the way she spoke of him – more as a soldier spoke of an inspiring captain – and the way a woman spoke of the man who was in her heart, as he had heard his cousin Elphir’s wife speak of Elphir before they were wed.

“Is that not where the Black Gate is?” she asked. “They must surely be there by now – it has been seven days, hasn’t it?”

“It has,” Faramir agreed.

Should he speak now? Perhaps it was too soon. Yet if the end of all things fell today, he wanted her to _know_.

“Seven days it has been,” he continued, “and in that time I have known both joy and pain I had not thought to know. Joy to see you, and pain for the days have grown dark indeed. I would not have the world end now, nor lose what I have found.”

“What you have found?” Eowyn asked softly. “What in these days have you found that you could lose?”

She glanced north again.

“We stand here far from the battle and wait for the stroke of doom,” she murmured.

“Yes,” Faramir breathed.

Time seemed to freeze. The wind died, the light failed, even that in the north, as what little they could see of the sun was blotted out. He could swear that all sound ceased in the City, and he wasn’t sure even of the beating of his own heart.

In that terrible stillness, Eowyn’s hand found his, and he held onto it as though it were the only real thing left in the world.

“I wonder if this is what it was like in Numenor,” he murmured, as much to hear his own voice and know he still lived as anything else. “When the great dark wave came climbing over the land and above the hills, unescapable.”

“Numenor,” Eowyn repeated nervously. “Is that what you believe is coming now? Darkness inescapable?”

She turned to him, as if seeking comfort, and he wrapped his arms around her for whatever protection that might be against such a fate.

And yet…

“No,” he said suddenly, startled by his own certainty. “I do not believe that is what is happening. It was but an impression. It may look as though great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of all things, but my heart says otherwise. I do not believe this darkness will endure.”

She looked up at him, and suddenly a sunbeam pierced the dark clouds and hit her hair, bathing her in light.

She smiled, and stood on tiptoe to bring her lips to his.

He barely heard the Eagle when it flew overhead crying the news of Sauron’s defeat.

\---

It was several days before tidings reached them from Cair Andros of what had happened at the Morannon – days in which both of them were suddenly as busy as they could possibly have wished themselves during the previous week.

Eowyn was the ranking officer of Rohan in the city, and found herself verifying casualty lists and beginning the formidable task of contacting the families of the deceased. Her brother would need to sign the letters before they could be dispatched, but they could not simply be printed en masse – each one needed a personal touch, a reminder that the House of Eorl had known the Rider as more than a statistic or a tally mark on a muster roll.

Faramir realized belatedly that he should be grateful to the Warden for shielding him from the full weight of his duties until he was fully recovered, for the city was in a terrible state, and unlike previous Stewards, he did not have the luxury of time to set it right. It was clear now that Aragorn Elessar was indeed the Heir of Elendil, the King whose return had been foretold, and Faramir needed to get the city into an acceptable state to hand it back to the King so that future generations of his house would be able to hold their heads up.

He saw Eowyn much less often than he would have liked, even as they both worked furiously to organize the supplies to be sent to Cair Andros for the victorious army, which had marched with little more than what they would need to see them to the Morannon.

He should have liked to speak with Merry Brandybuck again, but when he sent for the smallest Rider of Rohan, word returned to him that the Halfling had gone with the wains to Osgiliath to take ship to Cair Andros if he could.

Faramir’s consternation must have shown on his face, for the messenger – one of the younger Rohirrim laughed.

“I should have thought, Lord Steward, that you’d be pleased,” he said merrily.

“How so?” Faramir asked.

“Well, the Holbytla squire may have gone to meet them at Cormalthen,” the lad replied. “But Eowyn Princess didn’t, even though her brother wrote special and asked her to come.”

“Did he?” Faramir asked, as though it were a matter of little interest.

“Aye, and every Rider knows of it,” came the reply. “Yet she’s still here in the city.”

Faramir had moved back to the Steward’s House in the Citadel, but he made a point that evening to return to the Houses of Healing, where Eowyn still remained – more for lack of anyone being able to agree on an appropriate place to lodge her than anything else.

Though, he reflected as he slipped quietly into her room, perhaps this was appropriate. She looked pale and tired – if someone didn’t look after her, she’d work herself right back into the Healers’ care again.

\---

Eowyn had completely lost track of days since the news had come that it was _not_ the end of days and her brother and his Riders would live to rebuild the Riddermark.

Even if she wasn’t in her own country, there was still much to be done, especially once communications had been restored. (Two days ago? Three? She honestly didn’t know.) She was willing to do what it took to keep everything in order for the Riders here in the city and everything running back home if it would leave Eomer free to focus on taking care of his army so that they’d be able to return that much quicker.

She has also been sending back lists of the survivors just as quick as she can get her hands on them, because after a brief taste of waiting for news, she wanted to end that misery for the rest of the Rohirrim as quickly as possible.

Eomer’s idea that she could drop everything to come for the victory celebration at Cormalthen was so much pie in the sky. Who did he think was handling the logistics for that celebration anyway, or at least the logistics so far as the Eorlingas were concerned? Wains did not load themselves, and their Gondorian allies meant well, but they have a completely different system for their supplies.

She almost jumped out of her skin when she looked up from her tablet to find Faramir in the room.

“You startled me!” she said accusingly.

What time was it, anyway? Shouldn’t he have been working too?

“I’ve been here for nearly an hour,” he told her, looking like he was trying not to laugh.

She frowned.

Could he really have been there that long? A glance at the clock told her that he could, and without having shirked his own duties – it was seven o’clock, which meant she’s been ignoring her dinner for at least an hour. It was sitting on a tray that she hadn’t noticed either.

“I’m sorry, I was busy,” she said apologetically, after reaching the uncomfortable conclusion that he was not joking.

“I noticed,” he replied with a smile. “Come, walk in the garden with me.”

“I don’t have time,” she began, but he shook his head.

“You can make time,” he said firmly. “I thought what I was hearing of how hard you were driving yourself was an exaggeration until now.”

Eowyn frowned, but took his arm and walked into the garden with him. She couldn’t deny that she did feel somewhat calmer in the fresh air. If it was too late for sunshine, she could at least see the stars.

“Eowyn,” Faramir said when they’d reached a spot where no one was likely to bother them, “Why did you not go to Cormallen, beyond Cair Andros, where your brother awaits you?”

She wasn’t sure he wanted an honest answer to that question – had he forgotten what had passed between them?

“Do you not know?” she asked.

“I can think of two reasons,” he replied. “But which is the true one, only you can answer.”

“I do not wish to play at riddles,” she sighed. “Speak plainly. You should know by now I prefer that.”

“Either you did not go because it was only your brother and not Lord Aragorn, Elendil’s heir, who sent for you,” he said quietly. “Or you do not go because I do not, and you wish to be near me. Eowyn, do you not love me?”

“Of course I do, you ridiculous man,” she sighed. “Do you suppose I go around kissing anyone who happens to be standing next to me?”

Faramir laughed merrily.

“No, I did not think so, but Eowyn, I have not seen you for days on end! People sometimes do things in moments of fear or doubt that they wish afterwards to forget.”

“I’ve been busy,” she pouted.

He should understand – he had Minas Tirith to set to rights as well as the heir of bloody Elendil and his army to supply!

“So I have seen,” he said. “But now that you have made time for me in your busy schedule, I have a very important question to ask of you, Princess of Rohan, and I would have your honest answer.”

“Of course you shall,” she assured him. “Ask.”

\---

Faramir has never been this nervous in his life, not even when facing a battle he expected to _lose_ , for the love of all that’s holy. He could only trust he wasn’t wrong to hope as he did.

“Though I am not Elendil’s heir, and so will not be a king, or a prince, but only a humble steward,” he began, “I would wed the Lady of Rohan, if she will have me. And, as I do not think the Steward’s presence will be quite so necessary in Minas Tirith in days to come, I mean to cross the river, and dwell in Ithilien. Perhaps make a garden there, somewhat larger and a bit more private than this one. What say you?”

He actually wanted it even more, now that he’s said it. A manor in Ithilien, and a garden of their own. Eventually children running around that garden, children with both their parents there to love and care for them as a parent ought to.

“You would have me leave my own land and people, man of Gondor?” she asked archly. “I may be the sister of a king, and you not counted a prince, but you know as well as I do that your people will surely ask if there was no woman of Numenorean blood for you to choose.”

Faramir pretended to consider the matter, because he realized that under her light-hearted manner she was voicing a real concern, but he shook his head almost immediately.

“I can’t see many Gondorian noblewomen winning wheelchair races. Or entering them, for that matter,” he said decisively. “I think that’s a rather important qualification in a wife. More importantly, dearest of shieldmaidens, I can think of no woman of Gondor who can hope to best you in a fight, so anyone who would ask such impertinent questions would do well to pose them very _quietly_ , for I certainly won’t be interceding to defend them.”

Actually, he’ll back her to the hilt if any backbiters among the nobility of Gondor dare to say anything – not that he really thinks they will. She’s Eowyn the Witch-Slayer, for the love of all that’s holy, a hero of Gondor. If anything, _he_ will probably be considered the one who’s marrying up.

“Well, in that case…”

Eowyn kissed him, and they might very well have inadvertently followed through on her impish suggestion from last week to shock Ioreth had they not been interrupted before things could get very far.

The Warden of the Houses pointedly cleared his throat from somewhere behind them.

“Lord Steward, I think we can agree that the Lady Eowyn of Rohan is healed,” the man said, somehow contriving to sound both smug and exasperated. “As such, I release her from my charge and bid her farewell. What’s more, I commend her to the care of the Steward of the City until her brother returns.”

“I think,” Eowyn said with one of those mock innocent looks that are absolutely going to be his undoing, “that means he’s kicking me out.”

“That’s ok,” Faramir managed to say, thanking all the Valar he managed to keep his voice even. “There’s plenty of room in the House of the Steward.” 


End file.
